


Off Leash

by seungshibari



Series: Request Collection [8]
Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Established Relationship, Hoods, Leather, Leather Culture, M/M, Master/Pet, Mitts, Nonsexual Puppy Play, Power Exchange, Puppy Play, Tails, collaring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:20:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28174554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seungshibari/pseuds/seungshibari
Summary: By this point, their shared custom was embedded deep inside Chan’s body, etched into it like a wound or a scar, each movement practiced.One, Chan eased the kneepads on alone, hiking them up over his calves before sliding to the floor.Two, he inclined his head to his handler, allowing Minho to guide him into his hood, the scent of worn leather dense and comforting.Three, he presented his paws to be locked into his mitts, rendering his hands useless and clumsy.
Relationships: Bang Chan/Lee Minho | Lee Know
Series: Request Collection [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1778398
Comments: 15
Kudos: 69





	Off Leash

**Author's Note:**

> I DO NOT give permission for this fic or portions of this fic to be REPRODUCED or REUPLOADED without my express consent.
> 
> thank you to rayna for this request! 
> 
> this fic contains a nonsexual handler/puppy dynamic shared between minho and chan. puppy play is very closely tied to the gay leather community (thus the fic has been tagged as leather culture); puppy play in the eyes of the leather community centers around self-expression and trust, and i wanted to explore that in this piece! enjoy! 
> 
> please visit [here](https://twitter.com/seungshibari/status/1268354869188050945) if you would like to request something!

By this point, their shared custom was embedded deep inside Chan’s body, etched into it like a wound or a scar, each movement practiced. One, Chan eased the kneepads on alone, hiking them up over his calves before sliding to the floor. Two, he inclined his head to his handler, allowing Minho to guide him into his hood, the scent of worn leather dense and comforting. Three, he presented his paws to be locked into his mitts, rendering his hands useless and clumsy. It would be graceful, if Chan didn’t lose track of his limbs so easily, squabbling across the hardwood to follow Minho to the living room. 

“Hi, doggie,” Minho murmured. Chan’s eyes sparked with a smile. The mask obscured most of his face, so he had to express himself entirely with short barks and happy little yaps. It wasn’t like he was permitted to speak anyway: everyone knew that dogs didn’t talk. Since it was the weekend, he’d been wearing his tail all day, the plug snug in his hole with a thin rubber tail. Chan shook his hips from side to side, wagging enthusiastically. “Are you excited?” 

He increased his pace, feeling the tail thwack against his thigh. Minho reached a hand out to pet Chan’s flank, soothing him. “Calm,” he whispered. It was an order, but nothing Minho said ever felt like an order, it just felt right, correct. It felt obvious. Chan sat back onto his haunches and brought his hands up to his chest, letting his wrists fall limp. “Paw,” Minho commanded. Chan obediently planted his mitt in Minho’s palm. “Shake,” he continued, wrapping his fingers around Chan’s paw and moving it up and down. 

“Good dog,” Minho praised, “we’re going to pick out a collar soon for you.” Chan yipped in appreciation, bringing his head down to nuzzle Minho’s thigh. “Nuh-uh. Down.” 

In their world, collars were transcendental: a physical manifestation of their shared months of trust, training, and tribulations, both in scene and out. From their first play party (where Chan had seen his biochemistry professor), to fights over vanilla shit like takeout (they always settled on Chinese), Minho and Chan had remained steadfast in their love and respect for each other, whether Chan was clad in a leather hood or in tattered sweatshirts. 

They had talked about a collar before. Chan daydreamed often about that weight on his neck, the subtle grin on Minho’s face as he locked it in place. He remembered when he was a freshman, taking some art GE about representations of the body. The professor had blown up one of Tom of Finland’s pieces, skintight leather and muscular physiques dominating the rippled screen of the old-school projector. He looked down at first, studying the curvature of his knuckles. Gulping a little too loudly, he lifted his eyes. It was hard to blink. He didn’t know that was something he could _have._

And he had it now, a special spot in his closet reserved for leather gear, his own special mask that he and his boyfriend had selected after days of deliberation. He had the heat and sweat he’d dreamt of since that day in class. A collar wasn’t the final step - there was no final step - but it was a way to _wear_ his devotion to Minho. He wanted that. Playing with Minho was a form of comforting metamorphosis. Whenever he tried to explain it to their friends, he fell flat. He didn’t have the words to funnel his feelings into a phrase, the deep sense of calm that set in when Minho let him crawl onto the furniture or sprawl out on his lap. 

“Pup,” Minho prompted excitedly, “I hid one of my socks in here… Do you think you can sniff it out?” Chan tilted his head, his ears flopping gently. He barked affirmatively. Minho rose to his feet and stood over Chan, supervising as he began to crawl towards the bookcase. Chan prodded it with his nose. “Nope, not there,” Minho rubbed the top of Chan’s head, “you should try again.” He butted his snout into Minho’s calf, then reoriented himself to scamper to another corner of the room. Paw out, he nudged the ottoman and shoved his nose underneath, breathing in to try and catch the scent of Minho’s sock. 

“Don’t get your snout stuck down there!” Minho’s voice was distant as Chan surveyed the space beneath the furniture. Chan wiggled his tail to wag, signaling that he’d heard Minho’s sage advice. It was spotless down there: no luck, no sock. He tilted his head to unstick himself and returned to a sitting position, bringing a mitted hand to his shoulder to try and scratch an itch. The smooth leather brought no relief. “My sweet, sweet boy,” Minho chided, lowering himself to the floor and rubbing Chan’s skin where he couldn’t reach. Many would find dependency degrading or alienating, but nothing was more natural, more true, than when Chan was able to chase Minho’s beckoning hand and nuzzle into his palm. 

He grunted in appreciation before darting away from Minho, intent on accomplishing his assigned task. Approaching Minho’s cherrywood desk, he swung his snout from side to side. A few squints and sniffs later, he spotted the sock, nestled under the printer. He let out a happy yap and ducked down to paw at the sock. He whined, high and nasally, reminding himself not to speak. _Never_ to speak. He wasn’t allowed words. He wasn’t scared when Minho had taken them from him: Minho anticipated his needs and desires as they diffused. Each rule was a gift. 

“Good job, boy. Come up here.” He waited for Minho to sit first before he climbed up onto the loveseat to join him, grinning beneath his hood. Chan curled his legs neatly beneath him and brought his paws to his chest. Placing his head in Minho’s lap, he waited patiently for his gentle touch to descend. Right on time, he felt the world thaw and soften. 

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are always appreciated! 
> 
> feel free to contact me elsewhere:  
> ⚜ [twitter](https://twitter.com/seungshibari)  
> ⚜ [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/seungshibari)


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